Journey
by Desktop Warrior
Summary: It's not about the goal; rather, it's what we do to get there that makes us who we are. Lucian-centric.


**A/N:** I'll be editing this story at some point in the future. I know it isn't my best work, but upon second glance, taking it down was a bit extreme. I'd also like to thank Cerulean City for his advice when I posted it the first time. So, without further ado...

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**Journey**

He slams an index finger on the backspace button, erasing all of two lines of text he's written in the past couple hours. Adjusting the mauve-tinted glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he then sighs, returning his hands to the keyboard.

A few keystrokes here, a few there. A couple backspaces for whenever he makes a technical mistake: it happens pretty often in the rush of typing. He chuckles to himself. So many ideas flutter around in his brain, but he can never seem to get them all down. Either that, or there are too few, and he's stuck staring blankly at the screen, barely reading over the couple sentences he's managed to squeeze out.

This is one of the latter times. Taking a deep breath, he lets it out, sitting back in the comfy padded chair and placing his arms on its sides. He recalls what his author friends have told him. Write what you know. Don't force yourself. Above all, don't let distractions get to you. He takes a sip of coffee from the half-filled porcelain cup to his right, setting it back down on a coaster advertising some sort of alcoholic beverage. _Stay safe. Stay sober,_ it says in large black letters, the background taken up by a picture of a happy couple at some Hoenn beach. He chuckles slightly, the irony not lost on him.

Realizing he's completely forgotten about his writing, he shakes his head. _Don't get distracted. _And that's exactly what he'd gone and done! _Think._ Another series of clacks sounds from the keyboard as he types another sentence, a few gaps here and there as he mulls over his choice of words. A couple more sentences, and he checks his watch. _Twelve P.M. _As though on cue, his stomach rumbles. _Maybe I should grab some lunch…_ Pushing that thought away, he returns to the story. He's had a brain blast. _Gotta go with this, get it all down before it vanishes on me. _He's typing incessantly now. Yes, that's it! This is exactly what he had in mind−

A knock at the door to his study interrupts him, and his hands fly off the keyboard as though it were on fire. "Come in, honey," he says, hoping he doesn't sound too irritable. Before he can even finish that phrase, the dark wooden door to his right opens. His wife enters, dressed in a white sleeveless top and matching pants. She's about to go shopping, he knows, and she's wondering if he needs anything from the supermarket.

"Eggs and parsley," he says as she's about to open her mouth. "And Joe said he wanted a Leppa fritter next time you went shopping." Her half-gaping expression soon morphs into a warm smile, one which he returns. They burst out laughing.

"You and your psychic powers again, Lucian," she says, mirth lighting up her green eyes.

"Hardly," he responds. "That's just the Pokémon. Me, I've only known you for twenty years." He gives her a roguish wink, then rises from his chair to embrace her. A quick peck on the lips and a goodbye, and she's off.

He continues to smile even after she's gone. He wouldn't be able to get as far as he did without Elise and the kids, he thinks to himself as he sits back down in the chair. Their eight-year-old, Joe, would be outside playing with Girafarig and Bronzong, taking advantage of the sunny summer weather; five-year-old Tori, meanwhile, would be at a friend's house for the afternoon. His family is his main source of motivation, whether it's as a Pokémon Trainer or a writer. Countless times, he's been on the brink of giving up. But thanks to his family – thanks to their love and support – he's come back stronger.

Lucian turns his attention back to the computer screen. He can still keep this idea going, he thinks, though he isn't gripped by the same intensity as he was during that first brainstorm. But he keeps going at a steady pace. These small, mundane moments – as simple as Elise telling him she's going grocery shopping – are like constant affirmations to him. Compounded altogether, these simple moments provide him with the stability and certainty he needs to maintain his drive.

They don't see this side of him, whether it's the fans of his Pokémon battles or the readers of his books. The two are quite similar, really, he muses. Writing is a journey in and of itself, as is training Pokémon. And if there's one thing he's learned throughout the years, it's that there is no specific destination in either endeavour. Pokémon grow according to how they're trained; a book is the result of how it's written.

_There is no set path, no specific objective. There is only life, and what one learns in it._ Upon finishing that last sentence, he smiles. Taking another sip of coffee, he then gets up from his chair and leaves the study.

Joe would love learning some more about Pokémon battles.


End file.
